


living up to pride

by v3ilfire



Series: i fought the war, but the war won [11]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, this is not nice of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6582160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You could leave, you know,” Varric sighed. Hesta’s eyes snapped to the dwarf. The suggestion clearly left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Sunshine’s in that tower. Short of a coup, there’s nothing anyone can do, Hawke.” She supposed he was right, though had he suggested a coup a few hours earlier she might have taken it into serious consideration.<br/>“I could,” she conceded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	living up to pride

**Author's Note:**

> a prompt fill that got Way out of Hand. i apologize for nothing

Hesta gave Meredith credit for very few things, but she had to admit that the woman had a formidable sense of showmanship. 

She’d sent Cullen to her door in full armor two - no, three – no, _four_  days after her mother’s passing (it was hard to keep track of time when one’s nightmares came so close to reality). He showed up in full plate and armed with a series of practiced condolences, most of which she couldn’t care to pay attention to. She supposed there was some virtue in his authenticity, but she was yet to find it. 

The trek to Lowtown felt longer, somehow, probably because it was so fucking _quiet_. There was none of Merrill’s curious trilling, Isabela’s lewd jokes, or Varric’s chatter; honestly, she’d even give her right arm for Fenris and his awkward silence. She could deal with that far better than Cullen clattering beside her with steely determination and thinly-veiled pity, barely masking the gasps and whispers of the _have-you-heard_ s and the  _poor dears_. The whispers faded as they approached the foundry, thank the Maker. People in Lowtown were familiar with tragedy and she found far more comfort in an understanding nod than in any overpriced bouquet or stiffly-written letter. 

Cullen opened the door to the foundry and stood aside for her. Hesta stood shock-still by the threshold, waiting for her stomach to settle from the immediate smell of death, thick and potent and too recent to not quicken the beat of her heart.   
“Serah Hawke?” She didn’t know how long she’d stood there.   
“Sorry,” she whispered, but they both knew it wasn’t directed at the Knight-Captain. 

The Templars were so pristine and gleaming against the blood and dirt of the foundry basement that even _Varric_  would find the scene hard to believe. But, there they all stood, busy in the clamor of their investigation. Hesta crossed her arms over her chest and dug her nails into her flesh in a feeble attempt to anchor herself in the present, but the demons still danced in the corners of her vision and spun the room around her head.

“I hope you understand the necessity of your participation,” Cullen started. She’d nearly forgotten he was there. “The Knight-Commander insists we ensure that Quentin’s influence ended here.”  
“Let’s get this over with.” Hesta had to push what little remained of her voice through the sudden tightness in her chest.   
“Could you describe to us what happened that night? From the beginning?” Hesta closed her eyes but found no comfort in the darkness behind her eyelids. It was easier to face the carnage. 

She started from the white lilies. It became easier to recount the tale as she went; between the exhaustion and the sheer magnitude of what happened, she began to feel more and more like a spectator. She gave Cullen what she could, one of his scribes jotting down her every word and calling assistants to every mark she pointed out in her retelling. Talking seemed to stave off the tightness in her chest, at least. Once they got everything they needed from her, Cullen volunteered to escort Hesta back to her home, but she was quick to decline. She’d already mapped the side streets and alleyways she could use to get by unnoticed. It was all she wanted. 

“When do I get to talk to my sister?” she asked. Gamlen had already told her of the incident, but she doubted there was any comfort from her uncle, well-intended as he probably was.  
“I… cannot say. The Knight-Commander has forbidden the mages contact while she investigates the Circle. As I’ve said, Quentin’s influence –”   
“She’s my _sister_ , Knight-Captain. Our mother was just _murdered.”_ The room fell dead silent for just a split second, and Hesta could swear she heard the whisper of her mother’s last breath again. Her stomach cinched.   
“I’m sorry, Serah, but there’s nothing I can do against direct orders. The Knight-Commander is interviewing each and every mage and doing everything -”   
“Our mother just _died_  and Meredith is interrogating her?”   
“Every mage is subject to the investigation. This treatment is critical for the safety of the mages and the people of Kirkwall.”  
“ _You_ took Bethany from our home, tell me you don’t think she’s capable of conspiring to kill her own mother.”   
“Your sister spent much of her life as an apostate, and no matter how detailed an account of her training she provides, we cannot take her at her word. You have now seen the destruction mages are capable of. There is no precaution deemed unnecessary at this point. I support the Knight-Commander in any decision that will prevent Kirkwall from repeating the events at the Circle in Ferelden. I _am_ sorry, Serah.”  
“You’ve done nothing,” she hissed back, more of an accusation than acceptance. Cullen took it as such. Hesta nearly hoped he’d lash out at her, but the man shielded whatever he was feeling with that sickening politeness she was starting to hate.  
“You’ve done more than what we’ve asked here. Please, let me escort you to your estate.”

Hesta’s fingers pressed further into her arms, her teeth clenched so tight that an ache bloomed in her temples. The soldier in her – the _mercenary_  in her had already counted how many of these walking tin cans she could take on at one time, by herself. It had been an idle past-time, a joke that started with Carver in Lothering but suddenly turned serious as she considered lunging at the Knight-Captain. The only thing that kept her in that Maker-forsaken city was her sister being trapped in that _fucking_  tower but _fuck_ if she didn’t just see Wesley and his Blight-glazed eyes from the corner of her eye. 

The stench hit her again, full force and _quick_ , but by the time Hesta’s brain caught up to her body she was vomiting into a broken barrel outside, taking desperate gulps of sea and air sobbing like a right fucking mess behind the foundry where her mother died in her arms. Her whole body was vibrating with pent-up intent and anger and _sorrow_ like none she’d ever known. Her arms and her head ached and as soon as she was upright her fist slammed into the wall next to her and she just crumpled to the ground in her pain, bleeding knuckles and tears and all. 

Someone had either seen or heard, because before long there was the quick patter of feet behind her and dark hands lifting Hesta from the clump she’d reduced to, still crying too hard to breathe or see properly.   
“It’s just a few blocks to the Hanged Man,” came Isabela’s hasty whisper. “Can you make it?” Hesta nodded as she cradled her bleeding hand against her chest, trying to even her breathing while the pirate wiped the tears from her face. 

A numbness settled over her before she ever reached Varric’s suite. She sat on the corner of his bed while the world raced around her, completely hollow of all the things that filled her before. Isabela sat with her until she was assured - repeatedly - that Hesta would be fine if left to her own devices. Even then, she was hard-pressed to return downstairs. 

Varric was lacking a certain bravado when he finally entered. He set the sack that he carried next to what remained of his friend, eyeing the dried streaks of blood over the hand she still gripped close to herself as he sat down across from her.

“You look like shit, Hawke. You should eat. Orana packed some things for you.”   
“I’ll eat later,” she said. Her stomach still wasn’t over the smell of rotting flesh. At least Varric did her the courtesy of not staring at her, instead looking to the floor and tapping a restless finger on the table. Contemplating. “What’s on your mind?”  
“Nothing that can’t wait.”   
“It’s fine, Varric.”  
“You’re not. And don’t try to lie to me or joke about it. I know you better than that.”   
“If it’s important, I’d rather know now than have it looming over my head all day.” He looked at her, somewhere between frustrated and exasperated. He pulled a letter from his inside pocket, and tossed it towards her.   
“From the Viscount. Bodhan said it was an emergency.” Hesta eyed the envelope a moment before breaking the seal and pulling the parchment gingerly open. “What does it say?”  
“Nosy,” she sighed, but it was a comfort to the dwarf to hear her say something that even resembled the Hawke he knew. “There’s an urgent personal matter that only my ears can be privy to. He wants to see me first thing in the morning.”  
“Maybe he has a crush on you.” Hesta snorted, though the accompanying grin faded fast. Neither of them seemed to have the energy for their usual wild speculations. They both knew it was probably more trouble with the Arishok, anyway. 

“You could leave, you know,” Varric sighed. Hesta’s eyes snapped to the dwarf. The suggestion clearly left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Sunshine’s in that tower. Short of a coup, there’s nothing anyone can do, Hawke.” She supposed he was right, though had he suggested a coup a few hours earlier she might have taken it into serious consideration.   
“I could,” she conceded.   
“That isn’t your fight,” he said, nodding to the letter. “You’ve fought more than your share already. Even Aveline says you’ve done a lot of good in this city, but fixing shit is her responsibility, and the Viscount’s. Not yours. Nobody would blame you for leaving.” 

Hesta fingered the edge of the parchment in her hand. He was still right - not even Bethany would blame her for packing up and taking off. With what she paid them, Bodhan, Sandal, and Orana’s well-being was almost ensured and everyone else was more than capable of taking care of themselves. She could abandon her trail of corpses and make her own fortune in Antiva and nobody would think twice to ask why. It would be laughably easy. She could probably coast on what remained of the Deep Roads fortune until she breathed her last. 

And each and every day, on every sunny beach and warm night, with every drink and every dinner, Bethany would still be in that tower. 

“Well, Hawke?” Hesta looked to Varric, and back down at the parchment. Bethany would still be in that Maker-forsaken tower. Varric would still be there, in his suite, writing, and Aveline would still be Guard-Captain. Isabela would still be chased by Castillon, Merrill by her demons, Anders by his spirit, and Sebastian by his past. Fenris would probably keep wearing her stupid fucking ribbon and if the week leading up to her mother’s death was any precedent, she’d still wonder _why_. 

And she… she would still be haunted by her guilt, the last mark in a trail of corpses spanning from Ferelden to the Free Marches, resigned to an easy life tangled in loose ends and broken promises. If the city burned because she refused to act, then how was she any better than the man she had been ready to kill earlier that day?

Ah, fuck. 

“Who’s gonna comb your chest hair if I leave?” she asked. “Isabela just doesn’t have the right… touch.” Varric tried not to grin, he _tried_ , but it didn’t work. 

At least he wouldn’t have to miss her more than he already did.


End file.
